Bit Not Good
by A Shining Silver Star
Summary: "And now he was here. Standing in a silent cemetery in front of the grave of the only man he had ever really cared about. The only man who made him feel alive, who had saved him from a life ridden with nightmares, loneliness, a psychosomatic limp, and a therapist who should have been fired long ago." John/Sherlock slight slash


Title: Bit Not Good

Pairing: Sherlock/John slight slash if you squint

Summary: Just a little thing based on the ending of Sherlock BBC Season 2, Episode 3. It was quite literally the most depressing ending/cliffhanger I have ever seen in my life and so I am expecting a very slashly reunion between the two. Because they are so together no matter what anyone says. So enjoy and beware of SPOILERS.

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John Watson's heart stopped. He didn't feel the bicycle hit him or even the pain of his head hitting the ground several times. His only focus lay on the still, bleeding body that lay on the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

Already people were crowding around it, screaming and yelling for an ambulance. He pushed himself up and ran towards them, shouldering his way through, repeating that he was a doctor, that he was a friend. But they wouldn't let him through, wouldn't let him check on his best friend. His only friend.

His eyesight was going fuzzy, the voices becoming muffled. He pushed and pushed against the wall of people, his outstretched arms reaching for the man lying on the street.

He wasn't dead, why couldn't they see that? He was only hurt a little; the bleeding from his head could be stopped. He'd done it plenty of times before in the army, so why wouldn't they let him through to help him? He was a doctor, didn't they know that? He was pretty sure he'd told them that.

He was Sherlock Holmes. A little fall from a building couldn't kill him. Sherlock was an invincible master computer. He could figure things out from a single glance. He couldn't be dead. John wouldn't let him. It wasn't good. What Sherlock had said on the phone, what Sherlock was doing now, it wasn't good. He needed to look at John so he could tell him.

He needed to tell him, that there was no way that he, Sherlock Holmes, was a fake. There was no way he could have known that Stamford would meet him in the park that day, could never know he would take John to meet a potential flat mate. He had seen the other man in action on many cases. There was no way that Sherlock could fabricate each and every one.

He most definitely couldn't have known about Harry. No one but his parents and Clara knew about Harry. It was the Watson family secret; and if they were good at one thing, it was keeping something hidden no matter who was looking.

So why wouldn't he wake up?

"Sherlock?"

No movement. Maybe he just couldn't hear him over everyone else?

"Sherlock!"

Not even a fidget.

"Please! Wake up! You have to wake up Sherlock! You can't leave me! Not now! Not now!" his voice grew shakier and shakier until finally, he collapsed into sobs. His vision grew darker and darker, but still he kept them on Sherlock. He would wake up…

The grave was black and plain, engraved only with a name. To a random passerby it would be considered simple and quite beautiful. To John however, it was grotesque and only caused anger to bubble up inside him every time he turned to look at it.

He could vaguely hear Mrs. Hudson ramble on next to him. He could hear himself reply to a question, didn't even pay attention to his own words. He thought he might have said he was angry. More rambling, more replies. Of course he couldn't return to Baker Street. It was empty. Silent. It needed the sound of a violin, chemicals exploding, Sherlock yelling at the telly, Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

He hadn't woken up. When John himself had, he was in the hospital. He didn't need to ask questions. He signed himself out immediately and went home. Couldn't stand it there. Left there too.

The funeral had been quiet with only himself, Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson attending. Mycroft had pulled some strings to keep the media out. He had punched him in return.

And now he was here. Standing in a silent cemetery in front of the grave of the only man he had ever really cared about. The only man who made him feel alive, who had saved him from a life ridden with nightmares, loneliness, a psychosomatic limp, and a therapist who should have been fired long ago.

Again vaguely he could hear himself talking, asking for one more miracle, asking the other to please not be dead.

Of course Sherlock Holmes wouldn't listen to him. He never had. But that was only one of the things that John Watson had loved about him.

"One last thing, Sherlock. What you did for us? Thanks. You really do have a heart you know? Never doubted it for a second. Although you can still be a right prat most of the time."

And he walked away towards the gates. As he reached them he thought he saw a flash of dark hair and a long coat out of the corner of his eye. Turned. Nothing there. Turned back.

"You had better come home Sherlock. I can't afford Baker Street by myself forever. Mrs. Hudson will have my head if she doesn't get next months rent."

The clang of the cemetery gates followed John's exit.

A figure stepped out from a copse of trees. His dark curly hair and long coat moved softly in the wind. A smile grew on his sharply boned face.

"Rubbish John. We all know Mrs. Hudson doesn't have the heart to kick you out as much as she complains. And don't worry, I will be. You'd grow bored without me. And I without you. And we all know that's a bit not good." He stepped back into the shadow of the trees and vanished.


End file.
